


A Meeting of Minds

by Kryptaria, Mitaya



Series: If You Were... 'verse outtakes and cut scenes [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Criminal Masterminds, Gen, It's like bear-baiting only with guns, Mind Games, Negotiations, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitaya/pseuds/Mitaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since becoming a consulting criminal, Jim Moriarty had ensured that his safehouses are just that: <i>safe</i>. But no defenses are perfect, as an unexpected guest proves early one Sunday morning in October, 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 11 October 2009

**Sunday, 11 October 2009**

There was a certain point at which money ceased being about spending power and became instead a way to keep score. Jim Moriarty reached that point five years ago, before his twenty-seventh birthday, three years ahead of the goal he’d set himself when he was only ten years old, the brilliant nobody in a class full of popular apes. He could have done it sooner, but he preferred to emulate a snake rather than a cheetah. Flash and speed wasn’t his way — not yet. For now, better to move unseen and build his empire in the shadows.

London could have been his. A mansion in Knightsbridge, a stately manor outside the city limits, vacation property on whatever beach was fashionable this year. And he did own all of those, each used for a purpose other than self-indulgent luxury. More important to him was the string of safehouses, including the one where he awoke to the sound of two sharp knocks on the door.

He stared up at the ceiling, wondering. Two knocks. Not the duress signal from his guards, but not the safe signal either.

Of course, this safe ‘house’ was no house at all but a flat — a very nice flat taking up a full quarter of the seventh floor of a very nice building not far from Canary Wharf, which was coming back in fashion, at least outside the council estates.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had a legitimate accidental visitor or lost deliveryman knocking at his door.

Three knocks sounded as Jim was tying on a dressing gown and heading for the foyer. Again, that was neither the duress nor safe signal. He turned on the monitor by the door and looked at the hallway camera feed.

Well. There was his guard, who should have been on duty downstairs.

The man behind the guard, presumably holding a gun to the soon-to-be-dead guard’s back, looked vaguely familiar, though Jim couldn’t quite place him. Rival? Enemy? Not a cop — this wasn’t their game. At least it explained the ambiguous knock. The gunman had probably specifically told the guard to knock twice and then three times.

Jim hit the alarm to call for his backup; unlike the rest of the alarms in the building, his didn’t go to a central reporting station to be phoned in to the police. Then he called through the door, “Who’s there?”

“Do you _really_ want to have this conversation through a door?” was the response.

The door in question was heavy steel, and while it wouldn’t stop a .50 calibre round, it would stop damn near anything else. The wall was similarly reinforced — an advantage of living in a factory converted to flats, as had become fashionable a few years earlier.

“Actually, I’m quite comfortable here,” Jim answered loudly as he collected his own gun out of the front closet. Just because he preferred others to do the shooting for him didn’t mean he was an idiot. At any point in the flat, he was within five steps of a weapon. He didn’t bother checking it; gun locks and empty chambers were for dead people, not him.

“If I shoot this incompetent out here, it’ll ruin your welcome mat.”

Jim blinked at the monitor, but he still didn’t have a clear image. The man was fully aware of the camera, it seemed. “Shoot him in here and you’ll ruin my carpet.”

“You have polished, dyed concrete except for the kitchen, which has Italian travertine. As long as we don’t put him anywhere near the blue Persian by the entertainment center, clean-up should be quick. You keep the steam mop in the kitchen pantry, don’t you?”

 _A traitor,_ Jim thought at once, rifling through a mental personnel roster of everyone who’d ever been in the flat. But he was _certain_ of the loyalty of everyone who’d gotten that far; his vetting process was careful. The idiot guard, for example, had never made it past the welcome mat. A lover, then? No, he had other places for them, whether they were one-night stands or more long-term. London was full of hotels and easy rentals. Then _who?_

“Amazing what you can see through these modern scopes now,” the voice continued.

That was _supposed_ to be the advantage of this flat — no easily accessed sightlines. The surrounding buildings were all either businesses or lacked the proper angle to see this particular corner of this particular floor. Jim turned and looked at the nearest window with a faint sigh; he’d be abandoning this flat before the day was over anyway, and that was always a pain in the arse.

“That shade of blue isn’t your color,” the man added sardonically. “Or is that someone else’s dressing gown you’re wearing?”

 _Video feed,_ Jim thought, and entered the code to unlock the door. His team would be here within twenty seconds, if he’d timed this right, and he at least wanted to see exactly who he was about to shoot. He’d start somewhere low and painful, in fact, and get the man to explain exactly how he’d gotten his information.

As soon as the door lock clicked, Jim stepped out of the way and said, “It was a gift.”

The idiot guard stumbled in first, his steps louder than the sharp _pop_ that sent him sprawling, a neat hole centered in the back of his skull. There was no exit wound — most likely a .22, which meant the guard was just taking his time about dying.

“Consider it a favor. You’d have to replace him anyway.”

Jim confirmed that yes, it was a .22, very neat and professional in appearance. The silencer looked like a rather expensive model, though Jim had other firearms experts on staff to make such judgements.

For a moment, the two of them stood there, regarding one another over their leveled guns.

“Obviously,” Jim finally said, lowering his weapon. Whoever his visitor was, he wasn’t interested in Jim’s death — not right away, at least. He wasn’t even closing the door, which meant that Jim’s security would be coming into sight any moment now. “You really think this isn’t my color?”

His visitor gave him a flat stare. Late forties or early fifties, tanned skin, military bearing, light blond hair going silver at the temples. Steady grip on his gun. Very sharp light blue eyes.

“We need to talk,” his visitor said in response, stepping over the dying guard. The .22 disappeared under the brown leather jacket he wore, tucked into a back holster. He looked towards the kitchen, adding, “That’s your cue to offer coffee.”

Apparently, it was also the cue for Jim’s team to finally show up. They were through the open door before even Jim realized they’d arrived. Three of them shielded Jim with their own bodies while the other three went right after Jim’s guest. Everyone ignored the dying guard as insignificant, though it was a reminder that Jim needed a medic on his team.

By the time he motioned his bodyguards away, his visitor was pressed face-first into the wall. The man wasn’t struggling at all as they disarmed him not just of the .22 but of a larger semi-automatic, a small holdout revolver, and a butterfly knife. Either he was an overprepared assassin or a weapons fetishist.

“Hold.” Jim held up his hand, signaling his guards to stand down and stand guard, though he didn’t send them out of the flat. They’d removed the man’s weapons, but that certainly didn’t mean he was harmless. He hadn’t attacked _Jim,_ though, and he had been entertaining thus far, so perhaps a discrete conversation could be permitted. He cocked his head, asking, “How do you take it?”

“Black,” he said, winning points in Jim’s book. The man raked the guards with a quick, assessing look, and smirked. “Running a halfway house for untrained thugs?”

Six sets of eyes flicked to Jim, silently asking permission to rid the world of the still-unnamed intruder. In that instant of distraction, the man _moved,_ dropping the nearest of his guards with a solid punch to the gut before backing away, hands raised.

Point made.

“You, rubbish bags, kitchen closet,” Jim ordered, pointing to one of his men. He indicated the dying guard and added, “Get _this_ out. Dump him somewhere he won’t be found. You” — he nodded to his guest — “my office.”

Without waiting for a response, Jim stuck his gun into the pocket of his dressing gown and went through the living room to the small office where he did at least some of his business. With its fire escape, it doubled as a secondary exit. More importantly, it had a decent coffee pot.

“Do you have a name, or should I just make one up?” he asked, closing the door and gesturing for his guest to take a seat. There was a perfectly good sofa off to one side, but no chairs in front of the desk. Jim didn’t do _meetings_ when he could avoid it. The sofa was mostly used for napping or fucking.

“You _still_ haven’t figured it out?” The man sat, entirely unconcerned that he was disarmed and Jim wasn’t.

Jim had his suspicions, but they were narrowed down to three possibilities. The man’s accent was too generic for Jim to pin down his identity without more information. That was the problem with knowing _everyone_. Sooner or later, you started noticing resemblances that really weren’t there.

Jim found the stash of beans in the freezer and dumped some into the grinder, eyeballing the strength. He erred on the stronger side; he _had_ been sleeping, after all, and it wasn’t yet dawn. The sky outside was light with low cloud cover reflecting the glow of the city, making him wonder if the weather had affected his guest’s timetable. Or was he just hoping to catch Jim off-guard with a visit at four in the morning?

Distant surveillance, though... If fog rolled in, that would interfere with any video feed he might have, as long as the surveillance gear wasn’t _in_ the flat. He had his teams sweep the flat twice a day when he was staying there, which meant that the cameras had to be somewhere outside, and very, _very_ good quality. That required money as well as a level of technical expertise.

 _Ah,_ he thought as it fell into place. So that’s who he was. He really needed to not do this when he was half-asleep. And once he figured out his guest’s identity, it was easy to conclude that this was a very elaborate job interview.

“So, you didn’t go through my secretary. Are you on the run? Looking to escape England?” he asked, throwing a smirk at his guest, knowing the answer would be a resounding _no_. Patriots were always so fun to play with — especially the disillusioned ones. Belief was a terrible thing to have, but worse to lose.

The man — _no, Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Her Majesty’s Royal Army_ — only narrowed his eyes at the jab. “I believe we have some interests in common.”

Jim dumped the ground coffee into a filter and started the pot. The machine’s water tank was plumbed directly to the water filter under the bar sink. He turned, leaning against the counter, allowing the smell of the freshly ground coffee to help finish waking him up.

This hadn’t been a spontaneous visit. Moran had put a great deal of time and effort into dismantling Jim’s defenses. Why?

Moran’s interests weren’t anything so common as heroin, the natural first thought that came to mind when considering a soldier returned in disgrace from Afghanistan, especially when that soldier had passed intel meant to streamline the heroin trade, giving Jim’s organization a tidy percentage of two separate importers’ profits. Moran didn’t need weapons, either — not unless he was selling rather than buying. But this whole visit spoke of meticulous planning, calm confidence, and a fatalistic acceptance that he might not live to see the dawn.

That meant it was passion.

Jim had been watching Moran’s career for years, working with him from time to time, mostly to have local help dealing with heroin smugglers on the ground in Afghanistan. He’d been useful enough that Jim had paid him quite a bit of money over the years, until his time in Afghanistan had abruptly ended in disgrace.

Publicly, Moran’s military career had ended in good standing. He’d retired from active duty with the full rank of Colonel, though the promotion had come suddenly before his discharge, but there had been whispers. After he’d finally got his hands on the file, Jim understood why the government had made the effort to sweep the incident under the rug. Kinky sex with an American servicewoman, somehow resulting in her supposed suicide... Moran was lucky to have escaped prison.

“Tell me about her. Not what I read in the official reports. Who was she _really?_ ” Jim asked.

 _That_ put a crack into the cool facade. Moran’s lips tightened. “She was young. She was, in the end, foolish,” he said carefully, frowning in disapproval. “But she wasn’t stupid, nor chronically depressed, nor the majority of the things implied in the _official_ reports.”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” Jim said smoothly. He couldn’t quite tell if this was a matter of vengeance or something more complex — providing for the dead girl’s family, for example — but he’d figure that out soon enough. He didn’t even care about the truth. He was more interested in watching Moran’s face and reading his body language as he told the tale.

The crack was still there, though Moran was damned good at hiding it. It wasn’t the typical cultural fallback of ‘stiff upper lip’ — something that the military would have reinforced. It was something else, something deeper. Jim remembered what he’d seen of Moran’s military record. He’d earned his earliest decorations as a sniper, working both with a spotter and alone and making shots that were still the stuff of legends. That was the self-control Jim was now seeing.

“We were intimate. I was called away. She went back to her quarters and killed herself.”

The coffee pot was almost full, but Jim didn’t turn to get mugs — not yet. He watched Moran, hearing the words he didn’t say, wondering if this was Moran’s attempt at tact or if he’d been burned because of his tastes.

It wasn’t a question of whether or not he should push, but _how_. Normally, Jim didn’t mix sex and business, and either way, Moran wasn’t exactly his type — not at the moment, anyway, and probably not ever. Too many hard edges. Besides, as far as Jim knew, Moran was strictly hetero. But if Moran’s sexual preferences were going to be a weakness, Jim wanted to know about it now, rather than later.

“So many people make the mistake of equating ‘submissive’ with ‘weak’, don’t you think?” Jim asked casually.

Moran’s eyes stayed locked to his, but his head tipped back slightly as he took a long slow breath. “I walked out on her. She was emotionally vulnerable,” he said tersely, as if he’d practiced telling himself precisely that, maybe so often that he believed it, at least on the surface.

Jim turned to get those mugs down, letting the pieces all fall into place in his head. It was easy, with that one confirmation — something he’d suspected after seeing the initial uncensored pathology reports that spoke of a certain type of bruising and pattern of abrasions that were very familiar. He’d never heard a hint of that associated with Moran, though.

He wondered how he could use this.

He filled the cups and set them both down on the coffee table. Rather than taking a seat on the couch, he leaned against the back of the desk, letting Moran take his pick of the two mugs, though he wondered if the possibility of poison had even occurred to the straightforward sniper.

“Crashes happen to everyone,” Jim said bluntly. “Even with aftercare.”

Moran stared at him so hard that Jim could nearly read his thoughts. Finally Moran blinked first, leaning forward to take one of the mugs. (As Jim had expected, it was the one with the handle tilted slightly towards him, even though both were precisely the same distance away; people were _so_ predictable.)

“It cost me my career.”

So this had nothing to do with the girl herself. Vengeance, then. Jim sipped the coffee, testing the heat, and considered what Moran might want and how much Jim could get in return.

“When were you finally discharged?”

Thrown by the non-sequitur, Moran answered honestly, “Technically, I’m still burning accrued leave.”

“So you came back to dreary old England, and the first person you look up is me,” Jim said, smiling at him over his mug. It wasn’t a particularly cheerful smile. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in telling me how you found me.”

“I can do that as part of taking care of the holes in your security.”

That was an interesting offer, one that he couldn’t have predicted even five minutes before. “I have snipers. And security.”

“And yet, here we are. Delicious coffee, by the way.”

“Most of my _employees_ wouldn’t know,” Jim pointed out truthfully. There were a few who’d warranted this level of courtesy, at least during initial negotiations, but most had been hired through trusted agents. Once, he’d preferred to do everything himself, but inevitably, organizations grew out of control. He hadn’t achieved his current heights just to spend every day _working_.

“I’m not looking to be an _employee,_ ” Moran said, perfectly matching his intonation. “You don’t need _employees_. You need someone who knows what the fuck he’s doing. Get rid of the inefficiencies and replace the idiots with competent agents. I can probably cut your staff by a third.”

Jim stopped himself from visibly bristling at the implied insult. This was, after all, _his_ organization. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing was; there was always dead weight, at least when dealing with humans. His computer system were another matter altogether, but that wasn’t Moran’s area of expertise.

Moran smirked and leaned back. For the first time since Jim had brought up the girl, his body language proclaimed his confidence. “It took me less than a month to find you, and I _know_ you have enemies out there who are more determined. So you’ve stayed alive through luck.” He switched his coffee to his other hand and made a show of slowly reaching into an inside pocket of his jacket. He took out a mobile phone, entered his passcode (which Jim promptly memorized from the motion of his thumb), and skittered it across the coffee table.

Jim looked at the screen, which showed a photo of his flat, taken through the windows at an oblique angle during daylight. From this picture, he could calculate the point of origin, but that could wait.

He leaned over and picked up the mobile, swiping back through a series of photos of him and his agents. A growing sense of cold disquiet filled him as he mentally placed each photo in his memory. He struggled to keep his face expressionless. He was almost overwhelmed by the temptation to take the gun from his dressing gown and deal with this breach of security — starting with the six agents who were disposing of a body, if they knew what was good for them.

“What do you want?” Jim asked bluntly, long before he’d reached the end of the photos.

“My boss.”

Jim blinked once, wrong-footed by the answer. Was this an unexpected come-on?

Moran snorted. “Not you. Or did I forget to mention I work for SIS now?”

A whole world of possibilities blossomed in Jim’s mind. Even if Moran was a goddamned janitor at SIS, having someone actually _inside_ would be a treasure beyond calculating.

“You did,” he said, not bothering to continue browsing through the photos. He dropped the mobile back on the table, taking a deeper swallow of coffee without really tasting it. “And who at SIS do you work for?”

“As I said earlier, I believe we have some interests in common.” It was Moran’s turn to sip at his coffee, rolling the liquid around in his mouth.

Jim stared at Moran, wondering if it was even _possible_. SIS itself was a source of incredible information, but if Moran was implying Jim’s interests were _personal_...

“Don’t try to fuck with me, _Sebastian,_ ” Jim warned quietly, using Moran’s first name uninvited. He leaned more comfortably against the desk, making it clear to the other man that this was _Jim’s_ territory. “You can tell me now, and enjoy your coffee, or I can make that name the last thing that you scream before I _allow_ you to die.”

Moran stared at Jim longer than most people would have, but finally backed down at the look in his eyes. “You hate him as much as I do, _Jim,_ ” he said, perhaps rallying a bit as he let his gaze wander. He sipped his coffee. “Mycroft Holmes. Either we can race to see which of us takes him down first, or we can work towards it together.”

“Not ‘together’,” Jim corrected sharply. “Only one of us gives the orders here. You want in on this, you work _for_ me.”

Moran’s jaw set, and Jim wondered if he’d pushed too hard. But then he took a deep, harsh breath and looked back at Jim, baring his teeth in poor imitation of a smile. “I’ll send you my first security analysis tomorrow night, assuming no one kills you between now and then.”

Jim nodded, finishing his coffee and leaving the mug on the desk. Moran took the hint — thank god for people who were actually trained in etiquette — and rose. Jim led the way out, noting with some satisfaction that the bloody patch on the concrete had been cleaned up.

“Try not to kill too many of my guards on the way out.”

Moran smirked. “If they end up dead, they weren’t worth having,” he said, retrieving the weapons stacked on the table by the door. Jim kept an eye on Moran, though he really didn’t think Moran would steal his keys. He didn’t need them to get back in.

Moran started to reach for the door before glancing back at Jim expectantly. Amused, Jim stepped up beside him and tapped in the guest code, disengaging the lock.

“Don’t get rid of the flat though, I actually did have to work to get the camera set up. And I’ll close that loophole when I take it down.”

“Get rid of it? I was thinking of giving it to you for a year-end bonus, if you make it that long.”

Moran barked out a rough laugh and left without another word.

Jim closed the door, re-engaged the locks, and got on his mobile, sending out a flurry of orders by text. He wanted to go back to bed, but that would have to wait until he could get to one of his other safehouses, although he didn’t actually have one without windows. There was the bunker, but it was strictly for emergencies. The coffeepot was, of course, superb, but being that far underground did mean there was a certain perpetual dampness.

Moran was going to be difficult, though hopefully he’d be worth the effort, working at SIS. At least Jim could use Holmes to keep Moran in line. If Moran could take Holmes out on his own (and actually survive), he would’ve done it already. No, he needed Jim’s help. Jim just hoped their working relationship wouldn’t be a constant struggle for control.

 _This_ was why he hated dealing with ranking military staff. After a certain point, they started to take charge of _everything_.

Still, Moran had been right about one thing: the blue dressing gown was entirely the wrong shade for him. He’d leave it here.


	2. Sunday, 14 March 2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months later, Sebastian Moran is still a contractor in Moriarty's organization - a very opinionated contractor.

**Sunday, 14 March, 2010**

“You still look like you’re in the military,” Jim said, taking one quick look at the man who opened the door before he pushed by, looking around the loft. The furniture had been moved and the windows were now slightly obscured by tinted foil, probably meant to prevent the type of spying that had caused Jim such a headache last year.

Sebastian Moran, former colonel of the Royal Army, shoved the door closed and folded his arms across his chest. He’d lost his tan, but his appearance hadn’t changed otherwise. Same buzzed hair, blond going silver. Same neat moustache, trimmed to regulation. Despite the early hour, he was in a well-tailored navy blue suit with a light blue shirt that would have to go. He wasn’t wearing a tie, and if he tried to put on a blue one, Jim was going to shoot him on the spot.

“You’re here to criticize my sense of fashion,” Moran said flatly.

“Someone has to. Blue-on-blue. That wasn’t even a thing in the eighties. There’s no excuse.” Jim sat down on the sofa, scuffing a foot over the pile of the Persian rug. To his dismay, it actually matched the tones of Moran’s outfit.

“Have a seat,” Moran invited dryly, taking the armchair opposite the end of the sofa where Jim sat. “I have a meeting in an hour.”

“A _meeting?_ ” Jim waved his hand dismissively. “And I’m supposed to be at the café in two. You can wait.”

“I think you’re confusing ‘contractor’ with ‘employee’.”

“No. I’m offering you a change of status. It’s been six months.”

Moran leaned back, fingers tapping the arm of the chair as he studied Jim. “I’m comfortable with the work I’m doing for you.”

“And with your extracurricular activities.” Jim arched a brow. “Arms dealing? I could almost think you’re setting yourself up in competition, Sebastian.” He had to look away to keep from grinning at Moran’s reaction to the familiarity.

“Call it a side effect of my political work, then.”

Jim sighed. “Don’t pretend you’re Irish. I’ve seen your records.”

Moran grinned humorlessly. “I didn’t say _which_ politics.”

“Fine. Your answer?”

“No.”

Jim narrowed his eyes. “This is a one-time offer, Moran. You know my other option. You recommended him yourself.”

“He’s all yours. You won’t regret it.”

“Even with the mess surrounding him?” Jim asked, watching Moran’s sharp blue eyes.

There was no hesitation in Moran’s nod, no sign of deception in his expression. “I sent you after him for a reason. All you have to do is earn his loyalty. You’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

“On paper, yes. Now, he’s got both Holmes brothers interested in him and possibly the Met. I don’t need that scrutiny.”

“Stop fucking around, then, and do what you should’ve done two months ago. Make proper contact, recruit him, and make him disappear as far as the rest of the world is concerned.”

Interesting. Watson really had impressed Moran — or he was a plant, working _for_ Moran, though Jim had his doubts. Moran played a good game, but he wasn’t anywhere near Jim’s calibre. “He has a sister,” Jim pointed out.

“A sister he hates.” He rose from his armchair, smoothing down his jacket. “If you don’t want Watson, maybe I’ll recruit him instead.”

Jim was almost amused by Moran’s attempt to bait him — and refused to acknowledge what might have been a very slight twinge of jealousy. “You’d much rather be my ally, Moran,” he warned.

“Then I see no reason to change our arrangement. You know your work has first priority.”

Jim looked up at Moran. Figuring a partial concession was better than none, he nodded and stood. “Get rid of the shirt. For God’s sake, even white is better than light blue with that,” he said, heading for the door.

“Wait,” Moran said, disappearing down the hallway beyond the kitchen.

Curious, Jim leaned against the wall by the door, wondering if Moran was going to come back asking for fashion advice or with a gun, ready to end their dance. Either was possible; for six months, their invective had escalated without quite crossing the undefined line that kept things just this side of civil. Jim entertained himself for a minute, considering the likelihood of either option.

Then Moran walked back into sight, and Jim realized that he was wrong. “You left this,” Moran said, holding out a blue dressing gown.

Jim grinned despite himself; he preferred his employees with spirit, as long as they weren’t incompetent, which Moran certainly wasn’t. “Not my color, remember?” he asked, taking it.

“It’s a good shade for Watson. Call me when you want someone killed.”

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've all enjoyed this glimpse into the working relationship between Moriarty and Moran. This story slots in with Control & Surrender - specifically, the last chapter. Enjoy!


End file.
